If You Want Something Done Right, You Have To Do It Yourself
by SplatDragon
Summary: Micah had practically delivered Morgan into their hands, had all-but delivered him to them on a silver platter, and they had still managed to mess up. Had managed to let him escape, get away, get back to camp. But he was sick. Helpless. Weak. And you know what they say. 'If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.'
1. Gasping

**Whumptober 2019, Alternate Prompt #1: "Wake Up!"****  
****Bad Things Happen Bingo: "Fighting From The Inside"**

Micah couldn't believe it.

He'd practically _delivered_ Morgan into those O'Driscoll's hands, and still, they hadn't managed to kill him!

It had taken some work, too. Getting Pearson to go into town when he knew those O'Driscoll boys would be there. But the man was a damn fool, and in the end it had all worked perfectly. Morgan had gone up on that cliff, where that carcass was, scaring away the vulture and signalling to the O'Driscolls that he was there.

And they'd _gotten him_, too. That's what got Micah.

If they hadn't been able to capture him, he'd have been angry, sure. But it was understandable. He was a _strong man, _Micah couldn't deny it. And when cornered, as he would have been, he could fight as good as any wildcat.

But they _had_ captured him, taking him back to one of their camps. Had even _shot_ him, managed to keep him captive for days. When he'd come back, he'd been messed up to all hell, starved and beaten and septic, but they hadn't been able to _kill_ him, had even failed to keep him captive!

If you want something done right, he decided, you have to do it yourself.

When Arthur had failed to wake up after the first night, his fever spiking despite Hosea and Grimshaw and Reverend and Strauss' best efforts, they'd taken up a vigil. No one wanted to leave him alone in case he took a turn for a worse, and would spend their turn on the rotation laying wet rags on his forehead and coaxing water down his throat to try and replace what he sweated out.

It was pathetic, if you asked Micah. Morgan was a burden, and should be cut loose. Left to suffer alone, or die. If you needed someone else to take care of you, then you were too weak to run with his gang.

But it wasn't _his_ gang yet, it was Van Der Linde's, and so he had to obey, had to pretend to be concerned over Morgan (but not too concerned, of course, if he acted too concerned they'd be alarmed by his change in personality), as he bided his time.

And his time came.

He'd been sitting by the fire, keeping an eye on Morgan's tent. It had been three days since he'd staggered in and, while he wasn't doing much better, he hadn't gotten worse. He'd woken up, once or twice, slurring nonsense, shaking and trembling and trying to get away from whoever was sitting by his tent, only settled when Reverend pumped another dose of morphine in his arm to sedate him.

It was MacGuire's turn on the rotation, and while he and Morgan were pretty close, Micah knew that MacGuire was an _awful_ guard. He couldn't sit still to save his life, couldn't read to pass the time, would be bored to near tears without someone to talk to.

So it was only a matter of time until he cracked, walked out to 'piss' and take a long, long breather.

And by the time MacGuire would come back, Micah would be back by the campfire as though he'd never left.

And he was right. MacGuire had only been on shift for an hour (and he'd seen him walk off to piss before going inside), excusing himself to take a piss. Micah had waited a few minutes, until MacGuire should have been back, and then some, before standing from the fire, looking around to make sure no one was watching him.

They weren't—it was late at night, so only a handful were awake. Dutch, probably planning in his tent (and some part of Micah stung that he hadn't been summoned for it, although it did work for his _own_ plans), Smith off on guard, Macguire somewhere in the woods, or maybe snuck off to his tent.

So, stepping lightly, he approached Morgan's tent. The flaps had been closed towards the campfire, left open towards the lake to let in the cool breeze that came off the water into his tent, hoping that it would help lower his fever. He slipped inside, eyes already adjusted to the dark, taking a look around and nodding when he saw that no one would be able to make out his shadow inside the tent, the only source of light a lamp that flickered, given so little fuel that it threatened to go out.

The air reeked of sickness, of rot and disease, and it would have made a weaker man's stomach churn. Morgan's wheezing breath filled the air, the sound incredibly satisfying, and the faint light from the lantern illuminated the pained lines on his face.

There was a pillow near the chair, left there for Matthews when he sat vigil, worrying over his 'son' (he curled his lip at the thought), and he picked it up, tossing it from hand to hand. Yes, this would work. And no one would be able to tell, would think he'd just stopped breathing.

He approached Morgan, unable to help but to grin at the sight of him. Oh, even in sleep he looked in pain. His brow was furrowed, hair matted with sweat and dirt and who-knew-what-else, Grimshaw and Matthews had tried to wash it as best they could but there was still blood in it, face flushed with his nasty fever and mouth hanging open slightly, panting for breath.

'_Well,'_ Bell thought, '_he won't have to fight much longer.'_

He brought the pillow up, bringing it up to Morgan's face, only to pause.

Oh, he wanted to look him in his eyes as he died, watch the light fade from those horrid blue eyes. Morgan, out of all of them, deserved to die suffering. Not in his sleep, fading away as his heart stopped.

Bringing his hand up to hover it over his mouth in case he yelled, though he doubted he could with how weak he was, he set the pillow down beside Morgan and slammed the heel of his palm down on his bandaged shoulder as hard as he could. "Wake up, Morgan!"

The reaction was immediate.

Morgan's eyes snapped open, glazed with pain or fever or morphine or some mix of the three, arching up—or, at least, trying to, only managing to barely twitch. He cried out in pain as best he could, but Micah didn't even have to cover his mouth, the sound barely even a wheeze, a frog's croak from low, low in his chest.

"Wakey wakey Morgan," Micah grinned, taking in the alarm on Morgan's face as he saw him looming over him, cloaked in shadows and haloed by the slight amount of light given off by the lantern. His face had crumpled with pain, no longer numbed by sleep, crashing over him in waves of agony, and he croaked as he tried to speak, to demand of Micah what he wanted.

Micah didn't stop, didn't wait for any pretty words, instead pressed slowly down on his shoulder, watching him gasp, squirming weakly like a fish on a hook, helpless to do anything but struggle, before pressing the pillow down on his lower face, making sure to cover his mouth and nose, leaving his eyes bare so he could see them.

They were clearing, still hazy with pain but his pupils were no longer blown wide, instead shrunken into tiny pin-pricks by pain. His arms twitched—no, arm, the one with the worst of the infection was limp, useless—as he desperately fought against his own body, weak from illness, starvation and dehydration, to grasp the pillow and shove it away, to turn his head to the side and catch a breath he so desperately needed, but Micah had him thoroughly pinned, and he was _so weak_, all he could do was twitch, adrenaline thrumming through his veins, heart thrumming in his ears.

Micah grinned, pressing harder, shoving down and hearing his nose break, the man grunting, right hand clenching in the sheets. Oh, seeing Morgan so weak, at his mercy beneath him… if only it were Van Der Linde.

There would be time for that later, though, so he hummed, watching Morgan twitch beneath him, wild-eyed as he desperately tried to breathe, the rough fabric of the pillow scratching his face, smearing blood that Micah realized he'd have to wipe up before walking out, and the sound of shattered cartilage moving around was loud in his ears. Morgan's breathing was rasping against the pillow, and he pressed down harder, making sure he wasn't getting any air, that his desperate attempts to breathe were just that: attempts.

The power he had over this strong, monster of a man, the Van Der Linde Gang's infamous enforcer, the workhorse, the muscle, had excitement racing in his veins, his lips peeled back from his teeth in a nasty grin, and Arthur was sure he'd never be able to unsee it for as long as he lived, however long that may be.

Morgan's struggles, as weak as they were, were weakening, the lack of oxygen going to his brain. The veins in his eyes were bursting, going bloodshot, and despite his best attempts to look Micah in the eye they were beginning to drift shut, black gathering at the corners of his vision, warping and fading, Bell's face turning into something truly inhuman as his vision faded out, twisted in an expression of excitement and hatred.

Where… where was everyone? He hadn't been too lucid in… how long had it been since he'd escaped? He didn't know, but he knew it had been some time, from the few seconds he would wake up, be aware of his surroundings, of someone sitting nearby him, or coaxing him to drink water, laying a wet rag on his head.

Where… where were they?

He tried to call out, in the end, he did. But he didn't have the air, or the energy, and the pillow was covering his mouth and muffling the grunts and wheezes he managed to make. Even if he had had all the air in the world, wasn't being smothered under a pillow, he wouldn't have been able to, was too weak to speak in anything more than a whisper. '_Hosea… Dutch… Charles… Javier… Susan… please help me!'_

Morgan went limp beneath him, but Micah knew not to let up, that the man was only unconscious, as his eyes went shut and stayed that way. He held the pillow over his face still, much easier now that Morgan wasn't trying to turn his head, bracing himself on the one hand, reaching over with his other to press his fingers against his pulse point, feeling his heartbeat flutter like a butterfly trapped in his hand, leaning the majority of his weight down on the pillow, counting off one minute, two, as the pulse weakened and slowed until, finally, it stuttered to a stop.

He counted off, again, one minute, then two, before slowly pulling the pillow off. Micah pressed, feeling for Morgan's pulse, before looking to his chest, making sure it wasn't moving. He spat on his fingers before holding them under his nose, counting off another minute before pulling them away when he didn't feel any air cool them.

Arthur Morgan, he grinned, was dead.

Now, though, he had to clean up the scene. Make sure it looked like he had finally perished from the infection, stopped breathing in his sleep.

So he cleaned the blood from his face as best he could with a dry handkerchief, knowing better than to wet it, knowing that it would speed up the decomposition. Pried his fingers from where they were twisted in the blanket, laid them out at his sides, stepping back to make sure it didn't look like there'd been any sort of struggle.

Forgetting about the blood on the underside of the pillow, he set it back where he found it, before sticking his head out from the tent, looking around before slinking back to the campfire, grabbing a beer as he went and humming cheerfully.

Sean MacGuire returned to the tent just before his shift ended, flopping down on the chair just before Hosea stepped inside to sit by his son's bedside. They had started the rotations so Hosea would get some rest, but by the black bags under his eyes and the paper-like color of his skin, it was clear they hadn't been successful. He nodded his head at Sean, who vacated the seat so Hosea could take his turn, grabbing the pillow off the floor and tossing it onto the chair before slumping down onto it, dropping his head into his hands, sighing wearily.

How had this happened? How had things gone so wrong? How could they have let their boy get so hurt, have to rescue _himself_?

...why was it so quiet?

Hosea jolted upright, face blanching as he stared at the man lying still—_too still_—on the cot, eyes locked on his chest as though he could will it back into motion.


	2. Realizing

Hosea felt numb.

Arthur was _dead_.

His son, his _boy_, was gone. They'd never see him again. Never watch him swagger into camp, fighting down a grin as he wore one of those ridiculous hats he collected just to annoy them. Never see him ride into town on a new horse, working hard to get it to trust him.

He should have been there. Arthur had died right before his shift, maybe he would have been able to _do something_. Would have been able to stop him from dying, or at least been there with him. A man should never outlive his son, but he would never forgive himself for not being there when he passed.

And Dutch was hurting, too. It wasn't just him. It was the whole gang—their whole family. Arthur had been there since the beginning, had welcomed all but Dutch and Hosea into the gang. To many of them, he was an uncle, a brother. He'd been there for as long as any of them could remember, was the foundation of the gang. No one could ever imagine him _not_ being there.

And then he was gone.

"Hosea?" a hand settled on his shoulder, and he looked up to meet Dutch's gaze, the man's eyes bloodshot and glazed over. "Why don't we share my tent tonight?" he offered. It wasn't such a strange thing, they used to share a tent, sometimes even a bed or bedroll, often back in the beginning.

Hosea stared at him, feeling a flicker of anger in his stomach, spreading and chasing away some of the numbness, until all he could feel was that utter rage.

"_This is your fault,"_ he growled, and he clearly took Dutch by surprise, the man's eyes widening, hand going to his heart, gasping loudly.

"Hosea, what—?"

"If it weren't for you, Arthur would still be alive!" He should have felt guilty, considering the way Dutch's eyes welled, but he was _so angry_, "You knew, you _knew_, he'd never have left without telling you! He said he'd meet back up with you, and he didn't! We wanted to look for him, but you wouldn't let us! It's your damn fault!"

"Hosea," Dutch's voice cracked, gave out, and he cleared his throat, struggling to start again, "I didn't _know_, Micah said he'd gone wandering! I thought he was fine!"

'_Micah.'_ The rage burned hotter. "Micah be damned!" he roared, and the aforementioned man jumped where he'd been sitting by the campfire, turning to glare over his shoulder. "Why would you listen to him?! You _know_ better, Dutch! If it weren't for you, if it weren't for Micah, Arthur'd still be alive right now!"

It wasn't just Dutch who got the brunt of Hosea's pain, but Sean, too.

It hadn't taken long for Hosea to go after the man, more than he usually did. Sean had been the one on shift when Arthur had died, and Hosea _knew_ Sean, and the boy was horrible about loafing during his shifts.

Sean hadn't been there.

The boy had come to him crying, admitting it. He'd gone out for a piss, and gotten distracted, talking to Javier, and before he knew it his shift was almost over and he'd been rushing back to be there for shift change, and he hadn't been in the tent long enough before Hosea was in there to get a good look at Arthur, to realize something was _wrongwrongwrong_, to realize that he was unnaturally still, that his face had taken on that _horrible_ pallor.

And Hosea had torn into him. Had done all but strike him, and Charles had stepped in when he'd seen Sean's crying turn into a struggle to breathe. None of them had ever seen Hosea so upset before, veins bulging in his forehead, turning a horrible shade of red, and they'd worried for his health in that moment, that he'd been so worked up he might simply drop dead.

Sean hadn't spoken a word since, had taken to riding out and working himself to the bone, doing any work he could find, trying to make up for Arthur's absence (and how unfair was it that they only realized how much he did when he was dead?), bringing back as much money and food as he could. And when he was in camp, he spent all his time doing chores, sloppily chopping wood, hauling hay for the horses and feeding the hens, until he was forced to lay down when he looked two seconds from keeling over himself.

Even with Sean, though, the gang was struggling. People were hurting, and fighting. Getting sloppy. Those who weren't used to it were having to go out and work in ways they hadn't before, putting themselves at risk of injury or getting caught, the gang rapidly running low on funds and supplies. The girls were having to go into town, more and more, and Dutch's rule about keeping their heads low in Rhodes had long been broken.

Without Arthur, the gang was floundering.


End file.
